Cold Comforts Sherlock is Sick
by MegFonzarelli
Summary: a movieVerse Fanfic My first Sherlock Holmes fic. :D This is basically pure fluff. Holmes/Watson Very mild slash. The number of chapters depends on reviews! :3
1. Chapter 1

"ACHOO!"

My breakfast was interrupted by a loud, strong sneeze coming from Holmes' bedroom. Concerned, I stood and walked toward his room, standing just outside the door and listened for further noise. I heard nothing, so I knocked attentively and called out; "Holmes? Are you coming down for breakfast?" Not that it was unusual for him to skip meals. The door was quickly pulled open and a rather sloppily dressed Holmes stood before me. "ah, good morning." I said, turning promptly and walking towards the dining area. I was vaguely aware of Holmes' slower-than-usual footsteps behind me.

I took my seat and Holmes took his. He looked rather distracted, staring somewhere above my head for a moment before turning his attention to the toast and eggs that were laid in front of him. "Are you going to eat?" I prodded. To my knowledge, he hadn't eaten for a good few days. "Not hungry." Came his hoarse reply. I scoffed. "Holmes, when was the last time you've eaten-" I was briskly cut off by Holmes. "Watson I have no time for unimportant things such as eating whilst I am on a c-" His eyes tightened a bit and he pulled out a handkerchief, sneezing rather wetly into it.

"Bless you, Holmes. Are you quite well?" "Fine." Said he, his words punctuated with a harsh, bone rattling cough. "You certainly don't sound it, old boy." "Watson, you may stop your mother henning right his moment, for I assure you I am in perfect health." I stood and walked to the door, handing my empty plate to Mrs. Hudson who had appeared in the doorway to see if we had finished our meal. "Oh, and there's a telegram for Mr. Holmes from inspector Lestrade." She said, handing it to me before departing. At the mention of Lestrade, Holmes looked up in anticipation.

"I'm not giving you the telegram, Holmes." I said, reading his mind. He stood and made a grab for it before swaying a bit and falling back into the chair. I put the telegram away in a high place so Holmes could not gain easy access to it. "Watson, it could be something important!" "well it can wait." I said, walking to him and placing a hand on his forehead with one hand, the other holding his body firmly in place so he could not move. He tried to struggle, but it was no use. I was in full doctor mode.

As I expected. I ran over the list on symptoms in my head. Slight fever, sneezing, coughing, achy, sore throat. It all added up to influenza. "Well, that's it, Holmes. No more working from the next few days, you've got influenza." Holmes groaned theatrically. "Watson, stop mother henning for three minutes and just give me the bloody telegram." "No, Holmes." "watsoooooooooon!" He whined. "No Holmes. Bed. Now." He crossed his arms like a stubborn child. "No." "Yes." "No." "Yes!" "Getting frustrated will get you nowhere, Watson." "Bloody hell, Holmes! You are going to bed this instant, and that is final!" "You cannot force me."

After hauling Holmes bodily out of the chair and into bed, I stood outside his room and ordered him to dress in his nightclothes, to which he responded with a muttered, "yes nanny." After he'd called to me and told me he was dressed, I entered the room with some cough syrup, at the sight of which my friend drew back under his blankets. "Watson, stay away from me with that foul smelling liquid!" He practically yelled. I rolled my eyes and suppressed an amused chuckle. Here he was, the world s best and only consulting detective, the man who solved countless, seemingly impossible cases, the man who braved life threatening danger every day, and yet he could even handle a little cough syrup.

"Holmes, please. It will help you." He scoffed. "It will do nothing but merely put me to sleep!" The sooner the better. Wouldn't that be nice, Holmes sleeping? I sighed, half in annoyance, half in exhaustion. "Tell me, friend. What can I do to get you to take the medicine?" Holmes said nothing for a moment, thinking it over. After a while, I thought he'd drifted to sleep, so I turned to leave, when he finally spoke up. "Lay with me, Watson?" I stopped and looked down at his face, his sunken eyes, and his cheeks which held a note of pink to them, from blushing or fever I could not tell.

"Will you take the syrup?" Holmes nodded and sat up somewhat eagerly. I poured it into the small medicinal cup and handed it off to him. He had it down in mere moments, and I could not help but chuckle at the disgruntled faces he made. Needless to say he was far worse a patient than any child I'd ever treated. "there, Watson I've done what you asked, now it is your turn." Said he, scooting over in the bed. I climbed into Holmes' sickbed and layed beside him. "Happy now, Holmes?" I asked. He said nothing, just curled up to me, resting his fevered brow on my shoulder. My hand absentmindedly played with his hair until my sick little detective fell asleep, and I followed shortly after. 


	2. The childish detective

I awoke with a start the next morning to find that Holmes was not in bed where I had left him. The spot beside me was still warm, so he could not have left long ago. I panicked for a moment, and then tried to calm my thoughts by telling myself he had just gone to the washroom, or maybe Mrs. Hudson had brought tea. Standing slowly and stretching myself, I'd happened to notice a note sitting on the spot beside me. Holmes' handwriting scrawled out before me.

My Dear Watson,

Lestrade has called me away on an urgent case at Plumstead Cemetery. He had said it will not take long, so I suspect he just needs me to confirm his suspicions about some trivial fact. I shall be back before the day is out.

~SH

I sighed, and as I looked up from the letter, I had happened to notice Holmes' coat lying on the couch, as if he were planning on taking it, but had forgotten. I groaned as I grabbed his coat, then mine, and made a dash for the door.

..SH

The day was dreary and cold, but I didn't think of taking a cab. I just ran as fast as my legs would carry me from Baker Street to Wickham Lane. Sometimes I felt as if Holmes only had half a brain- A brilliant half that thought only of cases and facts, theories, and other such things- And I had to provide the other half. The half that thought of ordinary things, and common sense, like remembering a jacket on a cold day. I rounded the corner and walked past the gates of Plumstead Cemetery. Looking around I saw nothing but the few carriages from Lestrade and his men. The only person in sight was Clarky, who immediately approached me. "Clarky, where are Holmes and Lestrade?" "In the tomb. Lestrade wanted him to inspect the body for anything we may've missed." I sighed aggravatedly and rolled my eyes. Of course they would ignore the fact that Holmes was ill- of course, Holmes wasn't the best at acknowledging it either-, and he would continue to work like he wasn't.

"AtCHOO!" The sneeze from inside the tomb informed me that he was still trying to play on the fact. Pushing past Clarky, I walked into the tomb, placing my hands on my hips as I waited for Holmes to notice me there. He turned his handkerchief in his hands for a few moments before clearing his throat and looking up, seeing me. He chuckled nervously. "Er... Hello, Watson... I was just showing the inspector here the barely noticeable puncture mark on the late Lady Carlier's arm, obviously made by a specific type of needle, therefore she was a frequent drug user- Watson, that look of anger definitely does not become you." I grabbed Holmes' arm rather forcefully. "I have every right to be angry, Holmes! You were supposed to stay home! You're ill, remember? Or did that 'unimportant' fact slip your mind?" "I am very busy, Watson, I haven't the time to be ill! Now if you'll excuse me..." He said, turning back to Lestrade.

My grip tightened. "Holmes, you're going home. NOW." It was quite obvious to Holmes that I had the upper hand, but as always, he played his odds and ended up doing himself worse. The childish detective ran from my grip and out of the tomb. I raced off behind him- right behind him-, leaving a rather confused Lestrade in our wake. 


	3. The Confession

Holmes lay stubbornly on the couch and coughed pathetically, while I paced in front of him. "Of all the moronic things you could've done, Holmes!" We were both soaked beyond soaked because while we were running through the streets of London, dark clouds had started to form overhead, and the sky wept mercilessly. At least I had my jacket on, though I could not say the same for Holmes. He had run through a good portion of London before exhaustion claimed him for its own. I'd found him slumped against an alleyway just on the edge of Fleet Street and promptly dragged him back here to Baker Street, where I awaited for his wakening so I could rant. And believe me, this rant was NOT to be one Holmes would enjoy. "Do you KNOW how worried I was when I woke up and you weren't there? Or when you nearly passed out after running through London, jacketless"

"Watson," Holmes groaned, his voice weak and feeble as he peered up at me with his puppy eyes. "I am in no shape for a lecture... I just want to sleep..." I felt a pang of pity, realizing that his fever was probably raging by now, making him feel even worse. I sighed and nodded. "Right." I said, and as I went to walk out of the room, Holmes' voice stopped me. It was more of a mumble and came out sounding a bit like 'Smrry Wansod', but I knew what he'd meant. "It's alright, Holmes." I sighed. "Get some rest." with a kiss on the top of his head, I added, "You need it." He grunted and shifted positions so his face was buried in the pillow. Having second thoughts about leaving Holmes alone with his fever, I climbed into my usual chair and sat, watching Holmes sleep.

After a few hours, I must have nodded off because I was woken by a sharp sneeze and a groan. My eyes immediately snapped open to find Holmes, sitting up, wrapping himself in the small blanket, shivering. "Ah, w-Watson. You're awake. Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb your rest." HE stopped then to sneeze again. "I was just getting another blanket so-" It was at this moment I stopped listening and started acting on impulse, not exactly knowing what I was doing. I'd gotten out of my chair and sat on the same couch with Holmes, positioning myself in a laying position, and then laying him beside me. "W-Watson... what do you think you're doing?" My arm draped around him. "Extra warmth." I said simply.

Holmes did not protest one bit as he curled into my body, fitting perfectly and laying his head on my chest as my fingers absentmindedly played with his mess of hair. "Watson?" He asked after a while, looking up at me with his fever-bright eyes. "Yes, Holmes?" Here, my friend stopped a moment as if contemplating whether he should speak. "I... I love you." My hand stopped playing with his hair and I think just about everything in my mind stopped as well. Had he just said what I think he said? I had often thought about Holmes rather fondly, and I could see that fondness reflected in his eyes often, but was it love? This man who had fabricated a bond with me that was closer than friends... Closer than brothers, even. Without realizing it, I had created an awkward silence that had seemed to stretch on for hours until I realized that he was waiting for me to reply. I thought to recover in the one way I'd wanted to for the longest time...

My mouth pressed against Holmes'. Our mouths fit perfectly with one another's. It was a deep, long kiss that could only have come from years of suppressed emotions on both our parts. After pulling away, Holmes looked deeply into my eyes. "I love you too, Holmes." I said. It was all that needed to be said apparently, because he laid his head back down and fell asleep, I followed soon after. 


	4. Holmes, you bloody insufferable man

I awoke with a start to a loud clang of dishes falling to the ground, and shattering. Holmes was gazing in my direction apoligetically. He muttered something along the lines of 'Didn't mean to wake you.', and continued to search through the cabinents. "Holmes, just what do you think you're doing up? You should be in b-" I was stopped short by a loud sneeze that, to my astonishment, hadn't come from Holmes. "Bless you, Watson. Just as I had thought, you've caught my illness. And since you've played doctor for me so well, I will now do the same for you." He flashed a quick smile, then turned back to the shattered dishes on the floor. I felt the need to remind him that I actually WAS a doctor. therefore not playing as one, but the dryness in my throat would not allow the words to pass. Not before a coughing fit, anyway.

After it had passed, I looked up to find Holmes as my side, a comforting hand on my shoulder, and a glass of water held out to me. "Thank you." I said greatfully, gulping it down. I took then the oppourtunity to check over my friend as he walked back ot the pile of broken glass. His fever seemed to have broke through the night, and I had not heard so much as a sniffle from him since awakening. "Pray tell," said I, setting the now half-empty glass on the table. "How are you feeling, Holmes?" "Soup?" "...What?" "Do you want soup?" Holmes asked, getting back to his feet and discarding the broken glass. I shrugged in response. "I suppose soup would be nice... You should really eat something yourself, Holmes." He waved off the suggestion with his hand.

"I ate before you woke." I sincerely doubted it, but before I had time to voice my concerns to him, Holmes had vanished. I sighed, with inevitibly ended in a few racking coughs. I had officially come to the colclusion that kissing a sick Sherlock Holmes was never a good idea. Leaning back in the chair, I decided to relax and get whatever peaceful sleep I could.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSH

Unfortunately, my sleep was far from peaceful, for while I slept, fever played hecticly with my mind. Dreams of Holmes. Dreams of wild criminals, attacking, stabbing, and leaving him to die, while I watch from somewhere off to the side, helpless. I awoke to find myself in my room, laying in my bed. Strange. No matter how hard I tried I could not seem to recall coming here... Perhaps I had been carried? Holmes entered the room and sat beside me on the bed. "And how is the patient?" Asked my friend, a smirk on his lips. Was it just me, or were his eyes a bit too bright? "Watson, do you ever find it ironic when you fall ill? A doctor in need of a doctor... This brings me to wonder... Watson, when doctors are ill, do they go see other doctors? And if they do, who do the other doctors go see?" A smile to myself threatened to make itself known as I closed my eyes against the dull ache behind my them. Sometimes I swear that man talked just for the sake of hearing himself.

SHSHSHSHSHSHSH

The second slumber is more calm and controlled. There is no nightmare this time. I sat up to get a pain killer from my medicine bag and found that I was left with a lot less than I remember having. I also seemed to be missing cough surpressents, as well. Strange. I didn't give much more thought to it as I hobbled back to bed. It seemed all I wished to do was sleep. I didn't understand in the slightest how Holmes had managed to get up and run around with the yard while feeling like this. That once again brought my mind to Holmes' current state and how he had never truely answered any of my inquiries as to his health. "Holmes?" I called out.

My friend appeared in the doorway quickly as if I had called him in to fight away a man with a knife rather than to ask him a simple question. "What is it, Watson?" "You never did answer my quiestion from the other day. How are you faring, Holmes?" His nonchalant shrug at this was almost irksome. "I feel fine, Watson, I assure you." He walked out of the room then came back with a bowl of soup. "I had Mrs. Hudson rewarm it for you, in case you were to wake sometime before winter." He smiled at his joke, then moved toward the door. "I'm off to check up on the Yard. You know how lost they can be without me. Poor Lestrade's probably over his head with cases his men can't handle." He planted a kiss on the top of my head and made for the door. "Holmes." He turned. "yes?"

"Don't forget your jacket." I smiled wryly and he chuckled slightly, grabbing his jacket from the coat rack and heading out the door. Soon after I had finished my soup, it dawned on me. "The insufferable, bloody nerve of him!" I creid, grabbing for my cane and standing. I wavered for a moment and administered to myself a cooling pill before grabbing my coat, scarf, and hat off the rack and rushing off to find wherever it was the Yard dragged Holmes now. 


End file.
